The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men Page 7

  Sigurd looked at the map. ‘If he’s coming straight … you go here. Sjoberg.’ He marked out another spot with the point of his knife, then thought better of it. ‘That makes little sense, though. If he’s coming straight, he wouldn’t have razed Moster.’

  ‘Assuming he did.’

  ‘Assuming that. So where is he going?’

  ‘I will send Sigmar and two men of his choosing to Sjoberg, aim at having them there for midday, then tell them to go swiftly to here, here, here’ – Thorvald marked out points in quick succession, forming a perimeter around Stenvik – ‘and here.’

  Sigurd nodded his approval. ‘Just remember, let them look and learn but stay away. We need information, not dead heroes.’

  ‘Understood.’

  Thorvald hurried out of the longhouse.

  ‘We need to know what’s out there,’ Sigurd muttered to himself. He sheathed his knife and rolled up the map. ‘And we don’t need bloody Skargrim with a raiding party.’

  The last rays of the evening sun slanted in through a venting hole and caught on a worn, dully grey battleaxe, mounted behind the high seat.

  *

  The fading daylight in the little hut did the clothes no kind of justice. The trousers were of finest linen, a vibrant blue with silver thread, woven and fitted to measure. The coat had started out as simple grey wool, but was now a dark-as-night purple, shining with silvered buttons from neck to waist. The cloak was a rich dark red, embroidered with gold filament. Ulfar fastened it with a commanding, strong brooch cast in silver and gold, intricate designs flowing into and out of each other.

  ‘You really are serious about this, aren’t you?’ There was not even a hint of mockery in Geiri’s voice.

  Ulfar ignored him in favour of his own reflection in a convex silver disc. He adjusted his hair, looked at the reflection, adjusted it again and combed his locks meticulously to the left, then the right, then the left.

  Geiri’s hand landed on his shoulder. ‘If she likes you, she likes you. Stop preening. Let’s go.’

  Ulfar blinked and shook his head briefly. He noticed Geiri, made to speak, changed his mind then croaked: ‘Yes. Yes, let’s go.’

  He half-stumbled out of their tiny hut. His cousin followed and tried hard not to laugh.

  *

  Stenvik changed with the light, Ragnar noted. Three of the gates had closed already, and the south gate would be the only one left open. Already workers and traders were streaming down to the old longhouse to eat and drink.

  He looked over his shoulder. The boy trailed him reluctantly, the foul mood etched on his face like piss in snow. The old scout thought about things he could care less about and placed Oraekja’s feelings somewhere between flies on cowshit and a bad rash.

  Ah. There it was.

  The horse pen.

  Ragnar looked up, approximated the position in relation to the gates and committed the location to memory. He did not look forward to this, but she said it had to be done.

  So it would be.

  He signalled to Oraekja, turned and started making his way south.

  *

  Market season could go hang, Audun thought. The old longhouse was too crowded by far tonight. He glared at the assembled crowd to dissuade anyone from coming too close. Halfway in, a group of men had gathered around one of the tables. Sitting with his back up against the wall, old Sven looked calmly upon the black and white pieces on a Tafl board. Opposite him, his adversary looked sweaty, red-faced and in no control of his forces. Sven leaned slowly forward, made a simple move and smiled. ‘And that is the end of that, my friend. I believe that’s one bowl of stew and one mug of mead on you for me.’ The man quickly vacated the seat and Sven’s piercing eyes searched the crowd. ‘Anyone else, while the last victim goes and gets food for the old and needy?’ There were snickers in the crowd and one man took a step forward.

  ‘Welcome, son!’ Sven asked. ‘Who do I have the fortune to game with?’

  ‘The name is Ivar, and I’ll beat you, old man. Your beard will fall off when I’m done with you.’

  ‘My beard most definitely will fall off,’ Sven agreed as he calmly reset the board. Ivar sat and Sven looked him over, taking his measure. ‘… eventually.’

  Glaring, Ivar made the first move. Sven looked at him and feigned surprise. ‘Oh – did I insult you? I didn’t mean to. You have my apologies.’ He made his move. ‘I made a solemn promise that I wouldn’t – last time I fucked your mother.’

  The crowd roared with laughter. Ivar made to rise but got his feet tangled. Sven quickly extended his arms to calm him down. ‘A joke, son. A joke.’ He withdrew his arms and folded palms in a gesture of peace. ‘An evil attempt by an old cheat to get under your skin and make you do something stupid. Take it as a lesson from the sad, shrivelled husk that I have become. Two, in fact. First – never play angry. Second – cheat whenever you can.’ With that, he opened his hands and revealed Ivar’s king. Hissing, Ivar snatched his piece from Sven’s palm and put it back in the centre of the board. He made his move and Sven countered with poorly concealed delight.

  Audun watched the exchange from his corner and tried to remember a time in the last year when Sven had had to pay for his mead and meat. But then again, such was life. They played, they lost, they bitched. And none of them had the sense to walk away from a fight they couldn’t win.

  He’d seen that pig farmer get mauled in the market today. Two of the young ones off the Drake had held him while Harald went to town on the bastard. There was yet another case of a fight you couldn’t win, he thought. Still, the man was an idiot and a drunk. You could argue he’d been getting what he would eventually deserve.

  Audun frowned into his mug.

  It hadn’t been a fair fight though.

  Either of the young fighters would easily have been a match for the stupid farmer and Harald would have taken all three of them.

  Not fair at all.

  But that was what happened when you didn’t keep yourself to yourself.

  Trouble.

  He tried to think about something else, move his mind away from the sickening spectacle, the brutality, the sounds and smells of it all.

  The two foreigners entered. They scanned the packed room, their eyes coming to rest on his table.

  *

  Waves of laughter, shouts and bad singing washed over Ulfar and Geiri when they entered. Jugs of ale slammed on tables, women shrieked and cursed at men with roving hands.

  ‘There’s nowhere to sit,’ Geiri said.

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong again, cousin. Our quiet friend in the corner seems to have room for us.’

  ‘Hm. Leave the talking to me, then.’

  *

  The shorter one approached and leaned in, while the other seemed to scan the room.

  ‘Hello, friend. May we share your table?’

  Audun shrugged and tried his best to look through the man, but the obvious hints seemed to go above and beyond him. The stranger sat down happily next to him and introduced himself. ‘Geiri, son of Alfgeir. Travelling from Svealand to see the famed and beautiful fjords. What is your name?’

  ‘Audun.’

  ‘Well met, Audun.’ He motioned to the other foreigner, the taller one. ‘Ulfar, go get us three mugs.’ The one called Ulfar looked back at the shorter one for a moment longer than necessary before he left. Audun smiled to himself. It seemed quite clear who was used to giving the orders in this little marriage.

  ‘What do you do, Audun?’

  ‘Smith.’

  *

  ‘Very good!’ Ulfar heard his friend exclaim as he walked away. So that was what he called sensible, was it? Blatant, that’s what it was. That boy had no shame. Ulfar scanned the hall again. Full of big men, no sign of Lilia. A couple of farmers, from out of town by the look of it, sitting by themselves with mugs in hand and murder on their minds. He followed their stares to two burly fighting types and made a note of not being in the way when the time came. Getting to t
he mead was quick enough. He turned back with full mugs and headed for the corner table. Walking across the hall he couldn’t help but catch an impressive string of curses bursting out of the middle of a small group of men by his side, followed by a shout.

  ‘Cheat!’

  Suddenly his section of the room went quite quiet. Ulfar ambled away from the confrontation and set the mugs down gingerly on Audun and Geiri’s corner table. His head buzzed. They were playing Tafl! He had to sneak a look. From somewhere in the throng a deep, calm voice spoke.

  ‘Now, son. We wouldn’t want to make this a matter of honour, would we? Twelve men around you watched the game. Did any of them see me cheat?’

  Silence.

  Ulfar found himself craning to see.

  The men made way for someone standing up.

  ‘There has been trickery at this table,’ the man spat.

  ‘Now that I won’t deny, my boy,’ the old man by the wall said amicably. ‘There’s been plenty of trickery. But I didn’t cheat.’ His eye caught Ulfar’s. A brief flicker of recognition flashed across his face. ‘How about you, stranger? Would you care to sit down to a game of Tafl with a cheating old trickster?’ He winked.

  Ulfar nodded and occupied the open seat.

  Settling, he smiled at the friendly old man.

  ‘What are the stakes?’

  ‘If you lose, you buy me mead. I’ve already had my stew and two mugs.’

  ‘And if I win?’

  There was badly suppressed laughter around the table.

  ‘If you win?’

  Ulfar concentrated and cleared everything from his face but innocence and curiosity. He smiled earnestly at the old man.

  ‘If you win …’ he said, ‘I’ll shave.’

  Exclamations and laughter erupted around the table.

  Ulfar took his time to consider this before he nodded. ‘Accepted. Let’s play.’ He looked at the board. It was bigger than he was used to and the pieces looked slightly different, but apart from that it was close enough. He made the first move quite casually. The old man countered without thinking. Three moves in and Ulfar recognized a classic beginner’s trap. He sidestepped it neatly and added a twist of his own – a sneaky diversion he’d discovered the hard way while playing an Arab in Hedeby. The old man went for the corner piece that would land him squarely in the trap but stopped, hand in mid-air.

  Their eyes met.

  Suddenly the face of the cheerful grandfather was nowhere to be seen. Instead Ulfar saw his opponent for what he was, a grizzled fighter who had survived to old age on cunning, guile and very little mercy.

  Out of respect, Ulfar dropped his act. He’d spent most of his and Geiri’s journey earning drinking money playing Tafl, eventually saving enough to buy the clothes he was wearing. However he suspected it would be both unfair and unwise to act the fool in this town.

  The old man nodded slowly and grinned. ‘Sven.’

  ‘Ulfar.’

  ‘It seems someone has had a very good night’s sleep,’ Sven said. ‘You play louder than you talk.’ He decided against the corner move that would have spelled his doom and instead countered with a clever spacing ploy that Ulfar had not seen before. Ulfar found he was smiling, too. After months of sweeping the floor with Geiri and whoever else, it looked like he’d finally found a worthy adversary. He looked towards the corner to signal to his friend that he was playing, but Geiri was deep in conversation with the surly blacksmith.

  The pieces on the board begged to be moved.

  *

  Valgard entered the hall and frowned.

  There were precious few seats left. One was available next to the two farmers who had helped him earlier – red-face and fatty. He took one look at them and decided to sit elsewhere.

  Moving quickly toward the cauldrons he asked Einar for a bowl of stew and perched near a group of pedlars from the north-east. He’d eaten four spoonfuls when a large hand landed on his shoulder.

  He knew perfectly well whose hand it was, but allowed himself another mouthful before turning around and looking up.

  Harald’s face was hard to read.

  He crouched down towards Valgard, the smell of the mixture unmistakable on his breath. Moving a little too close to Valgard’s ear he whispered: ‘Could you have a look at Lilia for me? She …’

  ‘Is she ill, Harald?’

  ‘Yes. She’s … yes. She’s ill. Or she may have fallen and broken something. I don’t know. Go have a look.’ Valgard looked at him, willing him to say more. Harald’s face seemed to set. ‘She’s at home. Go.’

  Valgard bit his tongue. ‘I will, Harald. She will be fine, no doubt.’ Harald shrugged and returned to his seat, tucked away in the shadows. Valgard got up, a sinking feeling in his stomach. What had that bastard done to her this time? He forced all memories of past visits to Harald’s house out of his head and focused on the exit, distracting himself by looking at the patrons up against the wall.

  He saw Sven sitting at the games table and nodded to him, but got no response. The old man seemed thoroughly absorbed in the game. Someone seemed to be giving him a run for his money for a change. Valgard decided not to dwell. There were more pressing things to attend to.

  He pushed onwards to the exit, through the raucous crowd. The house was so crammed that even poor Audun couldn’t get his privacy, he mused.

  That was unusual.

  *

  In the corner by the door, Audun found that much to his surprise he didn’t mind the younger man’s company. He suspected he’d already talked more than he’d done since arriving in Stenvik. That kid knew his way around a smithy and seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say. He was getting gently drunk now too, the mead settling in nicely.

  ‘How did you figure that out?’ Geiri asked.

  ‘Well,’ said Audun, slightly lost for words. ‘When you’ve heated the ore enough so that it runs clear, you can mix things in. I’ve been experimenting, but I’ve found that coal dust produces stronger iron. Lasts longer, bends but doesn’t break, and sharpens up easy.’

  ‘I’ve heard tell of things like these, but that was in Rus, stories coming all the way from Miklagard. They have people from all over the world there, apparently – the finest blade-smiths come all the way from the Far East to hawk their wares. It’s amazing that you should have worked this out yourself without any access to peers, or books—’

  ‘Can’t read.’

  ‘— or a master.’

  ‘Never had one.’

  ‘That is fantastic,’ Geiri gasped. ‘So you’re self-taught?’

  Audun frowned. ‘… Yes?’

  ‘I am impressed, Audun. You must be the great-great-grandson of Wayland himself!’

  A rare surge of pride shot through Audun. He wasn’t often compared to the Master Smith.

  ‘One thing you’ve done wrong, though.’ Confused, Audun frowned. A serious expression clouded Geiri’s face. ‘Yes, Audun. It seems you’ve failed in your smithing.’

  ‘What did I—’

  ‘You’ve left us with defective mugs!’ With that, Geiri grabbed his and Audun’s empty mugs and upended them with a huge grin.

  Audun tried his best to scowl but couldn’t quite make it convincing.

  ‘I’d best go get more to make up for my filthy foreigner’s manners and those of my friend, who should have replenished us a long time ago instead of sneaking off to play after the first round. When I come back, I need to ask you more about Stenvik. The women in particular,’ and with a wink Geiri was off, shaking his head as he walked past his friend at the games table.

  *

  Ulfar struggled for breath. His head was pounding. The air in the longhouse mixed with the smoke of the cauldrons, the smell of mead and the sweat of too many people too close together.

  This guy was good.

  Already they’d launched stabs and jabs, feints and counter-feints, opened doors for each other that seemed promising but ended in horrific death down the line, sometimes slow
and painful, sometimes quick and painful, but always painful. This was the way the game was meant to be played. At first Ulfar had been able to gauge how he was doing by the reactions of the group around them, but as the tension rose he’d blanked them out, losing himself in the symmetry of the board, the possibilities of the assembled armies. They had spent a lot of time preparing but now it was time. The forces were primed, lined up and ready to go.

  ‘Cowards!’ The shout rose above the din of the longhouse. ‘You are worthless and unmanned, and we demand honour for our cousin, set upon by you two in the market today! We demand restitution!’ Something in the tone of the voice made Ulfar tear himself away from the game and have a look.

  Standing on a table opposite were the angry farmers he’d seen, now furious and drunk. They pointed at the two fighters he’d noticed, who summarily stood up a couple of tables away.

  ‘Who are you calling cowards, you lamb-shit gobblers?’ the broader one shouted. ‘Here’s payment for your cousin’ – he hawked and spat. ‘You might want to scrape up half and give it back to me, because I doubt he was worth that much!’

  All hell broke loose.

  Screaming obscenities, the two men launched themselves off the table.

  Ulfar’s world slowed down.

  He saw Geiri making his way through the crowd towards the corner, blissfully unaware of the source of the shouting.

  He saw the two enraged men charge through the crowd and storm the warriors’ table. One of them lowered his shoulder and charged into Geiri. The other stepped on his foot.

  Ulfar watched his friend lose his balance and fall, slowly fall, arms flailing. The panic in his eyes. Mugs flying. Geiri’s head hit the corner of a table. His arms went limp and he dropped to the floor like a stone.

  A cold feeling spread through Ulfar. Without thinking he sprang to his feet, stepped nimbly past one man stumbling away from the fight, spun past another and reached Geiri on the floor. He struggled for space to lift him out of the way of trampling feet.

  A big hand was on his chest, pushing him away.

  The blacksmith.

  Scooping Geiri up as if he was a child. Placing him on a table. Two feet away, chaos reigned. Fists flew; someone wielded a chair.